


The Maia's Scribe

by ChibiStarr



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Black Speech, M/M, Sauron has far too much to do, mentions of orcs and werewolves and vampires, the daily life of Angband
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 06:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14847194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiStarr/pseuds/ChibiStarr
Summary: The Lieutenant of Angband manages the organization of the fortress, and sometimes Maedhros writes his letters and reports for him. Sauron is very happy with the results.





	The Maia's Scribe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> A get well soon gift ;)

"And eighty pounds of dried meat are to be sent along with the wagons, guarded by two vampires each. Be sure to add a note that they are allowed to punish any attempts at thievery with death, in whatever fashion they choose." Sauron paused in his speech to sip his wine, narrowing his eyes to peer out the window at the assembling troops below. Even as high as his room in Angband was, he could still pick out the occasional snarl and yell of a quarrel far below. A flash of movement here and the head of an orc rolling there…well to be honest that was what he got for poking one of the werewolves while it was busy eating.

The sound of the quill scratching behind him was the main noise in the room, and he half-turned so he could look at Maitimo, who was bent over his desk in concentration as he wrote. He was getting better at it, Sauron could barely hear the pauses that had plagued the elf's first attempts at scribing the Maia's letters, and he decided that his idea to teach him Black Speech had been a good one after all. It had, of course, only born fruit after he spent weeks of frustration with Maitimo, painstakingly going over each letter and rule of the language, punishing every mistake he saw ruthlessly until  _perfection_ was achieved.

More than once he had wanted to just quit. Maitimo was far too slow for his liking, too hesitant, he didn't learn his letters quickly enough and tripped over his words, but his pride refused to let him. He had not been not about to admit that he had just been  _wasting_ his time on a folly, so he determined that he would make Maitimo learn his language even if he had to beat it into his head with the lash of a whip. A part of him, albeit a small one, had also been aware of the fact that he was only frustrated because he was an Ainu, and for him learning an entire language was a pleasant activity to take up an afternoon, while lower beings like the Children naturally had a harder time with it.

To be fair, Maitimo was actually doing far better than the first orcs he and Melkor had taught Black Speech to. That had taken  _months_ and the task had mostly been left up to him after Melkor—impatient as ever—threw up his hands on the second day and stormed away in frustration.

The scratch of the quill stopped and Maitimo looked up, eyes the color of fog meeting Sauron's gold. "My Lord?" he asked politely.

"Yes, yes," Sauron replied, giving a little gesture with his goblet as he collected his thoughts. "That will be the end of this order, but add this postscript: I am well-aware of the reports of infighting among Nagrub's hoard, and that he has been skimming bones off the top of the shipments we send in order to add to that ridiculous headdress of his. Remind him that those bones are for the werewolves  _only_ and if he wishes for his head to remain intimately acquainted with his shoulders then he will desist in his foolish activities before he finds it—ach, don't put it like that, he won't understand. Say that if he steals any more bones then he will find his head chopped off by the most rusted, chipped axe this fortress possesses, and then used as a kickball by the rest of the orcs." He sipped again, watching Maitimo's lips quirk in amusement as he fought down a chuckle at the Maia's words.

Fighting down a smile of his own—one had to get creative when it came to orcs, after all—he approached the desk and leaned over Maitimo's shoulder to look at what he had written. His letters had become much better, they were sharper and ragged, more appropriate compared to the artistic elven curls that had plagued his first attempts. Such writing was far more appropriate for the pure Black Speech that Sauron and Melkor used with each other, along with the other highest officers in Angband. The orcs, on the other hand, had their own variation on the language, twisting it to their own corruption the same way everything else about them was twisted, and very few of them were capable of reading it.

But the firstborn son of Fëanáro would be nothing if not skilled in matters such as this, once he started to get used to Black Speech he took off, both for the pure and corrupted versions, and now Sauron only needed to correct him once on a mistake for him to never make it again. Occasionally he saw the red hair twitch as Maitimo glanced at the alphabet next to him for a quick reminder, but it was few and far between.

He stroked that alluring hair as he watched Maitimo finishing his last sentence and was not unaware of the shiver that went through him at Sauron's touch. "Very good, Maitimo," he said sweetly, setting down his wine and leaning to nibble the tip of his pointed ear. "Let me." He took the freshly written letter and quill from Maitimo's hand, and signed it with a flourish. The rest of the task was left to him, and he folded the parchment, then reached for wax. Fire was unnecessary for a being such as him, and simply pressing the tip of the wax against his thumb caused it to begin melting immediately. After a few seconds he set it back down and pressed his seal into the wax before depositing the fresh letter on top of the stack that had been written so far. "Good job. Now, what is next?"

"This one, my Lord," Maitimo said, reaching for a letter covered with a shifting, messy scrawl that was  _all_ too familiar. "It seems to have been written by your lord—"

Face burning, he snatched it from the elf's grip in an instant and tucked it into his robes. " _I_ will answer that one, and none other," he said, his voice sharp.

Maitimo flinched. "Of course, Lord Sauron," he said, going for the next letter in the stack. "This one is from a…Gorad the Mage?" His expression was filled with questions as he looked up.

He nearly snorted into his reclaimed wine. "Ah yes, him. I can guess this one. Tell him…"

The quill continued to scratch away.


End file.
